Divorced The Billionaire, Married His Boss

Chandler Gentry gripped the stem of her champagne flute. The condensation from the chilled glass slipped down the crystal, pooling in her palm like cold sweat. The muscles in her hand ached from how tightly she held it, but she needed the physical pain to ground her. The grand ballroom of the Waldorf Astoria was suffocating. The air was thick with the smell of expensive perfume, roasted meats, and the heavy, invisible weight of Manhattan's corporate elite. Her chest felt tight, her lungs struggling to pull in enough oxygen.

She stood in a dim corner near a towering floral arrangement, invisible to the crowd. She rose onto her tiptoes, straining her neck to scan the sea of tailored tuxedos and designer gowns, searching for Avery. A waiter carrying a heavy silver tray of hors d'oeuvres bumped hard into her shoulder. Chandler stumbled, her ankle twisting slightly in her four-inch heels. Champagne sloshed over the rim of her glass, splashing onto her wrist. The cold liquid made her shiver.

She steadied herself against the wall. When she looked up, the heavy double doors of the ballroom swung open. Avery Osborn stepped inside. He wore a custom charcoal suit that fit his broad shoulders perfectly. The moment he entered, the ambient noise in the room seemed to shift, heads turning to acknowledge the heir to the Osborn media empire.

Chandler took a step forward, her lips parting to call his name. Then, her feet froze to the carpet. Pinned to Avery's side was Corinne Vance, his stunningly beautiful business partner. Corinne wore a backless emerald gown that clung to her curves.

Corinne leaned in, her red lips brushing against Avery's ear as she whispered something. Avery did not pull away. Instead, he tilted his head closer to hers. The corner of his mouth lifted into a soft, genuine smile-a smile Chandler had not seen directed at her in over a year.

A sharp cramp twisted Chandler's stomach. Bile rose in the back of her throat. Around her, she heard the low murmurs of the guests. "Look at them. The golden couple of Wall Street." "They are perfect together." The words felt like physical blows to her ribs. She could not breathe. She turned away from the ballroom doors, her heels clicking rapidly against the marble floor as she practically ran toward the secluded hallway leading to the restrooms.

The air in the hallway was significantly colder. It hit her flushed face, bringing a harsh clarity to her racing mind. Her hands shook violently as she pulled her phone from her clutch. She opened her messages and typed a text to Avery. When are you done? Can we go home? She hit send. She stared at the screen until it went dark. No reply.

Ten minutes passed. The silence of the hallway was broken by the sound of heavy, deliberate footsteps. Chandler looked up. Avery stood at the end of the corridor, his cold, gray eyes locked onto hers.

Chandler pushed herself off the wall. She walked toward him, her chest heaving with suppressed emotion. She reached out, her fingers brushing the cuff of his suit jacket, desperate for some kind of connection. Avery stepped back smoothly, his movement calculated to avoid her touch without making a scene.

He looked down at his platinum wristwatch, his brow furrowing. "Why are you here, Chandler?" His voice was flat, laced with heavy impatience. "I told you to stay at the apartment. You don't belong at these functions."

The sheer audacity of his words sent a rush of hot blood to her head. "I don't belong?" Her voice cracked, rising in volume. "I am your wife, Avery! You haven't been back to the penthouse in a full week. A week! Where have you been?"

Avery let out a harsh, humorless laugh. He shoved both hands into his trouser pockets, looking down at her with absolute disdain. "I am closing the biggest merger in Osborn history. That is slightly more important than coming home to listen to you whine about feeling neglected."

Chandler's eyes burned. Hot tears threatened to spill, but she blinked them back furiously. "A merger?" She pointed a shaking finger toward the ballroom doors. "You and Corinne looked very cozy out there. You were laughing. You don't look like a man stressed by a merger. You look like a man who forgot he has a wife."

Avery's face darkened instantly. The easy arrogance vanished, replaced by a cold, hard fury. He took a step forward, invading her space, forcing her to tilt her head back. "Keep your voice down," he hissed, his tone venomous. "Do not act like a classless, jealous shrew in public. You are embarrassing yourself."

The disgust in his eyes was a physical strike. Chandler stumbled backward. Her spine hit the cold, hard plaster of the hallway wall. The impact knocked the remaining breath from her lungs. She stared at the man she had loved for seven years, the man she thought had saved her life. He looked at her like she was trash on the bottom of his shoe. The illusion of their marriage shattered completely, the sharp pieces cutting her from the inside out.

Chandler took a deep, ragged breath. She forced the tears down, her jaw locking. "I am done," she said, her voice dropping to a dead, hollow whisper. "I am so sick of living like a ghost in your life. I am done being your dirty little secret."

Avery adjusted his silk tie, completely unbothered by her pain. A cruel smirk played on his lips. "Done? Please. You have nothing without the Osborn name. You are a bastard child your own father doesn't want. If you leave me, you couldn't even afford rent in Manhattan."

He stomped directly on the deepest, most bleeding wound of her identity. The shame of being Joseph Gentry's illegitimate daughter was a weight she carried every day. Her vision went red. She swung her hand up, aiming a hard slap at his arrogant face.

Avery caught her wrist mid-air. His grip was tight, the sudden force enough to make her wince, but beneath his furious facade, a flicker of raw, unexplainable panic danced in his gray eyes. He held her there for a fraction of a second too long, as if terrified she would actually strike him, before he pushed her arm down with a shaky exhale, releasing her.

"If you are going to be this hysterical, Chandler, we should just get a divorce and end this pathetic joke of a marriage."

The air in the hallway stopped moving. Chandler stared at him, her chest rising and falling rapidly. She searched his face, looking for a twitch of his jaw, a flicker in his eyes-any sign that he was just speaking out of anger, that he didn't mean it. There was nothing. Just cold, hard indifference.

The massive humiliation burning in her chest suddenly transformed into pure, combustible anger. She clenched her jaw so hard her teeth ached. She did not cry. She did not beg. She looked him dead in the eye and gave a single, sharp nod. "Fine. Divorce."

Avery blinked. For a fraction of a second, shock registered on his face. He clearly expected her to break down and apologize. His pride, however, refused to let him backpedal. He let out a dismissive scoff, turning his head away to hide the slight tension in his jaw.

The sharp clack of stilettos echoed in the hallway. Corinne walked around the corner, her emerald dress catching the dim light. "Avery?" she called out, her voice dripping with sweet intimacy. "The board members are asking for you."

Avery's posture relaxed instantly. He turned toward Corinne, his face softening into that same gentle expression Chandler had seen earlier. He walked toward her, completely ignoring Chandler's existence.

Chandler watched their backs as they walked away side by side. The nausea in her stomach violently erupted. She slapped a hand over her mouth, pushed open the heavy wooden door of the women's restroom, and rushed to the nearest sink. She gripped the porcelain edges, her knuckles turning white, and dry-heaved until her throat was raw.

She turned on the faucet, splashing freezing water onto her face. She looked up at the mirror. Her eyes were bloodshot, her makeup slightly smudged, her face pale and drawn. She looked pathetic. She hated it.

She grabbed paper towels, dried her face roughly, and pulled out her phone. Her fingers flew across the screen as she dialed a number.

"Hello?" a sleepy voice answered.

"Mark," Chandler said, her voice hard and steady. "I need you to draft divorce papers. Tonight."

Mark, a divorce lawyer she knew from college, sounded instantly awake. "Chandler? It's ten at night. Are you sure? Do you want to talk about mediation first?"

"No mediation," Chandler snapped, her grip on the phone tightening. "I want it done. Standard terms. I want nothing from him. Just get the papers ready and email them to me immediately."

She hung up before he could argue. She stared at her reflection one last time. Her fingers moved to the back of her neck, fumbling with the clasp of the heavy diamond necklace Avery had given her for their anniversary. She yanked it hard. The clasp broke. The diamonds pooled in her palm, heavy and cold.

Without a second glance, she dropped the necklace into the trash can next to the sink.

Chandler pushed the restroom door open. She walked down the hallway, past the ballroom, and straight out the front doors of the Waldorf Astoria. The crisp, cold autumn wind of Manhattan hit her face, and for the first time in a year, she felt like she could finally breathe.

Chandler stood on the curb outside the Waldorf Astoria, the cold wind whipping her hair across her face. She raised her hand, flagging down a yellow cab that was speeding down Park Avenue. The tires screeched as it pulled over. She yanked the back door open and slid onto the cracked leather seat.

"Upper East Side," she told the driver, giving him the address of the penthouse. Her voice was raspy, the aftermath of the dry-heaving and the unshed tears burning her throat.

The cab merged back into the heavy Manhattan traffic. Chandler leaned her head against the cold glass of the window. Neon lights from storefronts and streetlamps blurred past her in streaks of red and yellow. She forced her brain to work, mentally listing the items she needed to pack. Clothes. Laptop. Passport. Nothing else. Nothing Avery bought her.

The cab pulled up to the sleek, glass-fronted luxury building. Chandler paid the fare and stepped out. The doorman, a kind older man named Thomas, tipped his hat. "Good evening, Mrs. Osborn."

Chandler forced the corners of her mouth up into a tight, painful smile. "Good evening, Thomas." She walked past him quickly, swiping her keycard to access the private elevator.

The doors opened directly into the penthouse. The massive living room was dark and silent, the floor-to-ceiling windows displaying the glittering skyline. Chandler did not turn on the main chandelier. She flipped a single switch on the wall, illuminating a dim sconce in the entryway. She walked straight past the custom Italian leather sofas and the grand piano, heading directly for the master closet.

She bypassed the rows of designer dresses, the Chanel bags, and the rows of Louboutins. She dropped to her knees, pulling open the bottom drawer of a built-in cabinet. She dragged out a battered black suitcase she had owned since college. She threw it open on the floor and began tossing in her old jeans, plain t-shirts, and comfortable sweaters. She grabbed her laptop from her desk and shoved it into the front pocket.

She walked into the master bathroom to grab her toothbrush. On the marble vanity sat a silver framed photograph-the only picture of her and Avery in the entire apartment. It was taken on a beach in Malibu, right after they secretly married. Avery was actually smiling at her. Chandler's hand hovered over the frame. Her chest tightened, a sharp ache radiating through her ribs. She pressed her lips together, grabbed the frame, and slammed it face-down onto the marble counter. The sound echoed loudly in the quiet room.

Her phone buzzed in her pocket. She pulled it out. An email from Mark. The subject line read: Draft - Osborn Divorce Settlement.

Chandler walked out of the bathroom and sat on the edge of the massive king-sized bed. She opened the PDF. Her eyes scanned the dense legal jargon rapidly. She scrolled straight to the division of assets. Party A (Chandler Gentry) waives all rights to spousal support, alimony, and any claim to the assets of Party B (Avery Osborn). She was leaving with exactly what she came with: nothing.

She stood up and walked into Avery's home office. She turned on his heavy, industrial printer. The machine hummed to life. She hit print on her phone. A few seconds later, the smell of fresh ink filled the air as two copies of the contract slid into the tray.

Chandler picked up the warm papers. She grabbed a heavy Montblanc pen from Avery's desk. She flipped to the last page. Without a single hesitation, she pressed the nib to the paper and signed her name in bold, sharp strokes on both copies.

The electronic keypad on the front door beeped loudly.

Chandler froze. The heavy oak door swung open. Avery walked in, bringing the smell of expensive whiskey and the cold night air with him. He loosened his tie, looking exhausted and irritated. He stopped dead in his tracks when he saw the black suitcase sitting in the middle of the living room rug.

Avery ripped the tie completely off his neck and threw it onto the sofa. "Really, Chandler?" he sneered, his voice echoing in the large space. "Packing a bag? This dramatic routine is getting incredibly old."

Chandler did not argue. She walked out of the office, her face a mask of absolute calm. She walked up to the marble coffee table and slapped the two signed copies of the divorce agreement down. The papers slid across the smooth surface, stopping right in front of Avery.

Avery's eyes dropped to the documents. The bold heading Marital Settlement Agreement stared back at him. His pupils contracted violently. The arrogant smirk wiped off his face instantly. The situation he thought was a childish tantrum had just crashed into reality.

He snapped his head up, staring at Chandler. He searched her eyes, looking for the bluff, looking for the tears. He found nothing but a dead, empty stare.

A sudden, violent surge of agitation hit Avery. He snatched the papers off the table, his eyes scanning the text aggressively. When he read the clause about her taking absolutely nothing, a harsh, mocking laugh ripped from his throat. "Waiving all assets? What is this, Chandler? A new negotiation tactic? Playing the martyr to make me feel guilty?"

He threw the papers back onto the table. They scattered across the marble. He stepped closer to her, his tall frame casting a dark shadow over her. "Listen to me very carefully," he warned, his voice low and dangerous. "If you walk out that door tonight with that suitcase, the Osborn family will make sure you never step foot back in this world. You will have nothing."

Chandler did not step back. She tilted her head up, meeting his furious gaze with pure contempt. "I already have nothing in this cage, Avery. Leaving this miserable, lying marriage is exactly what I want."

Her words sliced straight through his massive ego. Avery's jaw clenched so hard the muscles jumped under his skin. The veins in his forehead bulged. He reached into the inner pocket of his suit jacket and pulled out his own fountain pen.

He uncapped it with a sharp snap. He bent over the coffee table, grabbed the papers, and violently slashed his signature across the bottom of both pages. He pressed down so hard the sharp metal nib tore right through the thick paper, scratching the marble underneath. He was trying to hide the sudden, cold panic rising in his chest with anger.

He snatched one copy and shoved it hard against Chandler's chest. "Take it," he spat, his voice trembling slightly with rage. "My lawyers will file it with the court first thing tomorrow morning. Have a nice life in the gutter."

Chandler caught the paper before it fell. She looked down at his aggressive, torn signature. She folded the document carefully, treating it like a winning lottery ticket, and slid it into the inner pocket of her leather tote bag.

She turned around and grabbed the handle of her suitcase. The plastic wheels ground against the hardwood floor, making a dull, heavy sound. Every step she took toward the door felt like a physical chain snapping off her body.

When she reached the entryway, she stopped. She set the suitcase down. She lifted her left hand. Her fingers gripped the heavy, flawless three-carat diamond engagement ring Avery had given her. She pulled it over her knuckle.

She placed the ring onto the glass key tray on the console table. The metal band hit the glass with a sharp, high-pitched clink.

The sound echoed through the silent apartment. It hit Avery like a physical blow to the back of the knees. He flinched, taking an involuntary step forward, his hand twitching at his side.

Chandler did not look back. She pushed the heavy front door open, stepped into the hallway, and let the door click shut behind her. She left Avery standing alone in the massive, empty penthouse.

The moment the elevator doors closed, the adrenaline crashed. Chandler's knees buckled slightly. Hot tears finally spilled over her eyelashes, burning her cold cheeks. She lifted the back of her hand and scrubbed them away violently. She took a deep, shuddering breath, forcing oxygen into her tight lungs.

She walked out of the building into the freezing wind. She pulled out her phone, opened the Uber app, and requested a ride. She typed in the address of a cheap, no-name motel in Midtown.

While she waited on the curb, she opened her contacts. She found Avery's name. She hit Block Caller. She opened Instagram. She blocked him there too. She severed every digital tie she had to him.

A black SUV pulled up to the curb. Chandler hauled her heavy suitcase into the trunk, her muscles burning from the effort. She climbed into the backseat and slumped against the cheap fabric, closing her eyes.

"Do you want the radio on, miss?" the driver asked, looking at her through the rearview mirror.

"No, thank you," Chandler whispered. She turned her head, watching the dark streets of Manhattan roll by. Her chest still ached, her stomach was empty, but beneath the pain, a strange, terrifying sense of freedom began to bloom in her blood.

Chandler dragged her suitcase into the narrow room of the Midtown motel. The wheels caught on the frayed, mustard-colored carpet. The air smelled strongly of industrial bleach mixed with stale cigarette smoke. She wrinkled her nose, dropping her bag near the foot of the lumpy mattress. The room was depressing, but as she looked at the peeling wallpaper, the heavy weight that had crushed her chest for a year felt significantly lighter.

She walked into the tiny, cramped bathroom. The fluorescent light flickered above the sink. She turned on the cold water, cupped her hands, and splashed her face repeatedly until her skin felt numb. She grabbed a scratchy towel and patted her face dry. Staring at her reflection, she saw the dark circles under her eyes and the pale, exhausted set of her mouth.

"Not tonight," she whispered to the mirror. Tonight, she needed to forget. She needed to burn the memory of Avery's cold eyes out of her brain.

She opened her suitcase and dug past her sweaters. At the very bottom lay a dress she hadn't worn since before she met Avery. It was a black, skin-tight slip dress with razor-thin straps that dipped dangerously low in the back. She stripped off her conservative clothes and pulled the dress over her head. The silk clung to every curve. She dug a tube of aggressive, blood-red lipstick out of her makeup bag and swiped it across her lips, masking her exhaustion with pure defiance.

Thirty minutes later, an Uber dropped her off in Lower Manhattan. She stood in front of an unmarked black door in a graffiti-covered alley. This was "The Abyss," a high-end underground club notorious for its exclusivity and absolute lack of rules.

She handed her ID and a thick stack of cash to the massive bouncer. He unhooked the velvet rope. Chandler pushed open the heavy door and was instantly hit by a physical wall of sound. The heavy bass of the EDM music vibrated in her teeth and rattled her ribcage. The air was hot, thick with the smell of sweat, expensive cologne, and alcohol.

She pushed her way through the writhing bodies on the dance floor, fighting her way to the long, neon-lit bar.

"Tequila. Neat. Make it a double," she shouted over the music to the bartender.

The bartender, a guy with a neck tattoo and a nametag that read Mickey, slid a heavy glass toward her. Chandler picked it up and threw the burning liquid down her throat. The alcohol scorched a path down to her stomach, making her eyes water and her chest heave.

She slammed the glass down, raising two fingers for another round. As she waited, her eyes wandered up to the second-floor VIP balcony.

Her heart violently seized in her chest.

Standing by the glass railing, looking down at the crowd with an expression of pure disgust, was Avery. Chandler's breath hitched. She suddenly remembered Avery once mentioning "The Abyss" as a gray-area meeting ground for his shadier corporate dealings. Coming here had been a subconscious act of rebellion, a reckless provocation she hadn't fully thought through, and now the devil himself was actually here.

Avery's eyes scanned the bar and locked onto her. Even from a distance, she could see the shock morph into explosive anger on his face. He slammed his drink onto a nearby table and practically ran toward the stairs.

Chandler turned back to the bar, her hands shaking. She reached for her second shot, desperate to drink it before he reached her.

Before her fingers could touch the glass, a large hand clamped down on her wrist. The grip was brutal, the fingers digging painfully into her fragile bones.

"What the hell do you think you are doing?" Avery hissed, his voice cutting through the heavy bass. He yanked her arm, forcing her to spin around and face him. He looked at her tight dress, his eyes blazing with furious jealousy. "You sign divorce papers and immediately run to a meat market to hook up? Did you have this planned?"

Chandler yanked her arm with all her strength, breaking his grip. She rubbed her bruised wrist, glaring at him with pure hatred. "I am single, Avery! I can sleep with ten men tonight if I want to, and it is none of your damn business!"

The words shattered the last remnants of Avery's control. He grabbed the shot glass off the bar and hurled it at the floor. The glass shattered, the sound lost in the music, but the violence of the action made the people standing nearby back away quickly.

Avery pointed a shaking finger inches from her face. "Do not test my patience, Chandler. You are making a fool of yourself."

Chandler lifted her chin, refusing to show fear. "Go back to the Upper East Side, Avery. Take your control issues and choke on them."

Avery's face twisted in pain and rage. He let out a dark, bitter laugh. "You are going to regret this," he spat. He turned on his heel and shoved his way violently through the crowd, disappearing toward the exit.

The adrenaline drained from Chandler's body instantly. Her knees went weak. She slumped forward, resting her elbows on the sticky bar counter. She buried her face in her hands, her shoulders shaking as she dragged in ragged breaths. A single tear escaped, cutting a hot path down her cheek.

Mickey, the bartender, had watched the entire exchange. He wiped down the counter, leaning in close to her. "Rough night, sweetheart? Boyfriend trouble?" he asked, his voice dripping with fake sympathy.

The alcohol was hitting Chandler's empty stomach hard. Her brain felt fuzzy. She kept her head down, mumbling into her hands. "Ex-husband. I just... I just need a man who listens. Someone who does what he's told and makes me forget everything. Just for tonight."

Mickey's eyes lit up with predatory greed. In the underground club scene, a rich, well-dressed woman asking for a man who "does what he's told" meant only one thing. She wanted to buy a high-end escort.

Mickey lowered his voice, leaning closer. "Say no more, honey. The club can arrange a VIP special host for you. The best in Manhattan. He'll make you feel like a queen."

Chandler's brain was too clouded by the tequila and the emotional crash to process his words properly. She waved her hand dismissively, her head spinning. "Whatever. As long as it makes me happy. Money isn't an issue." She turned away, rummaging in her clutch for a tissue.

Mickey smiled. He turned his back to her, moving to a shadowed corner of his workstation. He reached into his apron pocket and pulled out a tiny plastic vial filled with clear powder. It was a heavy party drug, designed to heighten sensory arousal and lower all inhibitions.

He poured the powder into a shaker, mixed it with a bright pink, sweet-smelling cocktail, and poured it into a martini glass. The powder dissolved instantly.

He walked back and slid the glass in front of Chandler. "On the house, beautiful. Drink up. It's our special 'Forget Your Troubles' mix."

Chandler looked at the pink liquid. Without a second thought, she picked it up. "Thanks," she muttered. She took a sip, her finger mindlessly tracing the rim of the glass as she stared blankly at the flashing strobe lights of the dance floor.

Seeing her drink, Mickey pulled a small radio from his belt. He turned his back, lifting the radio to his mouth to call the club's top male model.

At that exact moment, a hidden door behind the VIP section opened. A man stepped out of the shadows. He wore a bespoke dark grey suit, a crisp white shirt, and gold-rimmed glasses. Brennan George pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose. His sharp, predatory eyes scanned the chaotic room like a radar, cutting through the smoke and flashing lights.

His gaze locked onto the bar. He saw Chandler sitting there, her bare back exposed by the thin dress. A muscle feathered in his jaw. His eyes darkened. He stepped down the stairs, his long legs moving with slow, deliberate purpose toward her.

Down at the bar, Mickey pressed the button on his radio. "Dispatch, I need Falcon at the main bar for a VIP-"

A heavy hand slammed down on Mickey's shoulder, spinning him around violently. The radio slipped from his grasp, clattering onto the counter.

Mickey gasped, staring into the murderous face of Avery Osborn. Avery had come back. He grabbed Mickey by the collar of his shirt, hauling him halfway over the bar.

"What the hell did you just put in her drink?" Avery roared.